


the first virtue in a soldier

by seinmit



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Anal Fingering, Breathplay, But he does get off on the HTP past, Dissociation, Doctor/Patient, Gaslighting, HYDRA Trash Party, Horrifically Bad Therapy, M/M, Not Canon Compliant Post-Civil War, Object Insertion, Past James "Bucky" Barnes/Alexander Pierce - Freeform, Praise Kink, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Raped during rape recovery, Sex Toys, The Therapist isn't HYDRA, Unwilling Arousal, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-13 00:43:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21485536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seinmit/pseuds/seinmit
Summary: The first virtue in a soldier is endurance of fatigue; courage is only the second virtue. - Napoléon Bonaparte.Bucky's worked harder on therapy than anything else in his life—but no matter how far he runs, he ends up here. And he knows what’s coming next, better even than the doctor does.
Relationships: Background James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 124
Collections: Naughty List 2019





	the first virtue in a soldier

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).

> There's a lot of potentially hard stuff for people around the main premise of the fic, which is Bucky getting raped by his therapist. If you want spoiler-y details, notes are at the end.
> 
> Oh, and this is set in some vague New York future after Civil War, where the Infinity Saga never happened and Steve and Tony eventually made up

It’s been a good week. It has. He slept reasonably well. The memories eating at the edge of Bucky’s composure like mutant rats from a pulp novel mostly kept to themselves and left him alone to go about his business. A middle-aged woman grabbed her daughter—she’d called for Ada, the pretty name struck him—and yanked her out of his path so hard that the little girl cried, but on the same trip to the bodega, another lady made a point to meet his eyes and smile. He’s breathing, he’s doing things, he’s putting together a life. 

It isn’t a lie, then, when he says the week went well, but Dr. Sheridan sees right through him. 

“Has there been any progress on what we discussed last week?” he asks, calm. 

Bucky doesn’t squirm. He goes very still. 

Dr. Sheridan’s eyes sharpen—of course he notices, of course he knows Bucky’s tells. Pressure makes him focus his scope outward and that makes him calm—a different sorta mood entirely from the hard-won dreamy quiet of most of his days.

"I didn’t feel guilty after the mission on Tuesday,” Bucky says, which is mostly true. “I did what I had to do and saved some people. The only thing I felt guilty about, really, was the fact that it felt so comfortable to sink back into those old patterns. It’s like I’m only flourishing when I’m the Soldier." 

He throws this last thing out like bait, dangling a juicy morsel of half-rotten truth. The fishing line threads back, up his nose and throughout his brain, making up a latticework of cracks in his skull. He’s shattered plenty of heads in his day, he should know. 

"That’s very good," Dr. Sheridan says, taking pity on him. "But you haven’t struggled with overwhelming guilt about current missions for some time. What _have_ you been struggling with, Bucky?"

Bucky sucks his lower lip into his mouth, sinking his teeth into it. He keeps going back to the rats, the fishing. His brain does this, now. He figures a person isn’t meant to have made as many memories as he had, especially since he had been forced to forget so many of them. It means now his thoughts twist and swirl from place to place, landing on different vivid specifics. An image of some boys, fishing for rats in the gutter when things got really lean and the available meat was too rotten for anything other than vermin to find it tempting. A daring big fella, coming out to nibble on his toes in his shithole cell tucked away in Novosibirsk. You’re on the wrong end, he remembers saying. It’s the arm that’s rotting. 

Dr. Sheridan watches him, without judgment in his expression. Therapy is hard work. He knows that. This particular issue has been more difficult than most, though. 

"Steve and I are still having trouble in bed," he says, finally. He hears the grudge in his own voice and doesn’t want to think about who it is directed against. 

Dr. Sheridan smiles at him, though, and it feels like fur brushing against his skin, sleek and gentle enough that he shivers.

"It’s very good that you’re willing to be honest with me, Bucky," Dr. Sheridan says. The verbal praise is even more intoxicating. The soft touch of the smile gets firm, like a cat pressing his whole body against your face, and Bucky feels the thump of his own heart. 

He’s actually had to ask Steve to stop complimenting him so much, since it goes to his head like a drug—he’s raised this with Dr. Sheridan, but he just says that therapy is hard work and that Bucky deserves the praise when he earns it. Bucky figures that actual psychiatric drugs don’t work for him, so he might as well take the praise, if the doc thinks it makes sense. 

"Did you do the exercises we talked about last week?"

Bucky likes assignments. There’s stability to them. In Budapest, he’d given himself missions to keep his life in order, force himself to do new things and learn to be a person again. In Wakanda, they’d given him tasks in the community and challenges to complete. Dr. Sheridan didn’t like when Bucky called his homework missions, but he still gave them. Bucky didn’t tell people this, but there was something comforting about having a part of his life where he still has orders. The Avengers, for all the combat they did, are atrocious at anything resembling military discipline.

"Yes," he says. "But—"

He looks away and focuses his eyes on a place where the exposed brick in Dr. Sheridan’s office had some crumbling mortar. Imagine, it being fancy to not have any plaster covering your brick. He remembers—and no, drags it back. No time for rats and cheese and pottery and brick. He’s under fire, if not literally. 

"Steve doesn’t want to do it anymore," he says. 

Dr. Sheridan’s eyebrows raise and Bucky can see the surprise. It keeps him talking, trying to interrupt the resonances of failure. It’s a pattern older than the soldier—he’d never gotten to explain anything away, then. 

"He says he doesn’t see the point in pushing me like this, he says it makes him feel like he’s hurting me—I tried to explain to him that it was a way for me to get better, but he’s always been a stubborn sonuvabitch," Bucky says. He tries to keep his voice even, in the tone of a mission report, but he can hear his words speed up—stumble over themselves, like a child making excuses. 

"I’m surprised," Dr. Sheridan says. "He’s always been so supportive of your recovery." 

"He is," Bucky says, immediately. "He is very supportive—he just doesn’t like to see me hurting." 

That’s a quote. Steve couldn’t help but seem furious, every go-round they had of this conversation. It has been unsettling, to fight like this. Their whole lives, they’ve always fought—but never about the goal, just the means. Steve has always had an unshakeable sense of where he was going and Bucky set his compass to it—all the myriad fights in their life had been about how to go about getting it, how much to sacrifice for what was right. This time, though, Steve thinks this whole thing is a terrible idea and Bucky isn’t sure he has enough of himself left to figure it out on his own.

"Is he still having trouble maintaining an erection?" Dr. Sheridan asks. 

"Not always," Bucky says—he isn’t sure if the promptness of the response is about defending Steve or defending himself, trying to make clear to Dr. Sheridan that they actually mostly did have a successful sex life. "We—the serum gives us both very high libidos and we have no problems, when it isn’t focused around penetration." 

No problems is strong, sure, but it is closer to true than not. He licks his lips, hesitating—he wants to ask what he’s asked a number of times, he wants to—

"It’s important to your recovery that you not let yourself avoid things that you fear," Dr. Sheridan says. His voice has just a breath of reproof in it, lingering like the scent of blood under bleach. "This is the nature of exposure therapy. Steve objected to your work with Dr. Madontsa, too, right?"

"She never called it exposure therapy," Bucky says. Dr. Madontsa had always just told him he needed to find things that were worth being afraid. She and him had found some things worth doing and Steve kept wanting to make the doing easier on him. That had felt like a different type of fight than this one.

"Regardless of Steve’s impotence, there are other things he could use to help you face your fear of penetration," Dr. Sheridan says. "There is no need for the physiological difficulty to hurt the therapeutic process." 

"It’s my fault," Bucky says, which makes Dr. Sheridan frown. "No—it is. I. I start asking him to stop. And even though we’ve talked about it over and over, that I don’t want him to stop, in fact, he refuses to ignore it. He doesn’t want it. Isn’t that his right, too? He doesn’t want to hurt me and he doesn’t want to have to listen to me beg him not to." 

Bucky had been certain of this, walking into the appointment. He had been so sure that this was true and that this whole thing maybe wasn’t the best idea, that they should try something else—but he is off-balance, now, teetering between Dr. Sheridan’s approval and disapproval. His back is starting to ache, he’s sitting up so straight—as if that could help him. 

"You would think that a military man would understand that sometimes growth demands sacrifice. A good soldier is able to endure what is necessary for him to endure," Dr. Sheridan says. 

Bucky’s breath catches, heart hammering in his chest—but his body stills even further, face freezing into a familiar mask. The rats, come for blood and leaving him bloodless. Sudden clarity, crisp and empty.

"Bucky?" Dr. Sheridan says. 

It takes a moment of working his jaw before he can speak. 

"Sorry," he says. "You—uh. That sounds like something the Secretary would have said." 

Dr. Sheridan drops his gaze to check his notes. Bucky is very aware that he can’t see his eyes. 

"Secretary Pierce?" Dr. Sheridan says. 

"Yes," he says. "I’ve been thinking about him a lot." 

There’s the sound of a pencil, scratching something inscrutable down on the yellow legal pad. Bucky keeps talking so he doesn’t have to hear it. He wants to go back to the merry-go-round of memories and feelings, but he’s entirely in the moment now.

"It used to feel good," Bucky says. "When he penetrated me. It didn’t hurt, like it does with Steve. He’d—"

His mouth is dry enough that he swallows and his throat clicks. Dr. Sheridan leans over and puts his own glass of water on the small table next to Bucky’s chair. He doesn’t look up. The mix of gratitude with the unnerving sense that he’s failing the doctor keeps Bucky talking, pushes him past whatever resistance he maybe harbors. 

"He’d—penetrate me himself, and it felt good, but bigger things, too. It doesn’t make sense that it hurts so much with Steve, that I get so—"

"Frightened?" 

The word burrows in his chest and sears him with the shame of it. He’s surprised by that shame—for a while now, he’s been grateful for the humanity of his own fear. But Dr. Sheridan continues to write and he can almost feel the lead on his own skin, marking the places to cut. Right now, he knows it is a failure that he’s afraid, but he has to admit it out loud:

"Yes, I’m afraid."

Dr. Sheridan looks up and smiles at him. Bucky’s fascinated by the soft folds of skin, next to his eyes—he has a kind face, the type of face that has done a lot of smiling over the last fifty years.

"You’re doing so well, Bucky," he says. "This is a very hard thing to talk about. I think you’re really on to something here. Do you want to tell me about a time that Secretary Pierce penetrated you without pain? A time that he made you orgasm?" 

There is a perversity to the way that Bucky’s anxiety manifests, nowadays. When he’s feeling the least himself, he’s the most calm. He starts counting his breaths. It had been a surprise to learn that focusing on his breathing was a recognized therapeutic technique, one that could perhaps help him become whole—he had always used it as a way to cope with being empty.

His voice is even when he starts to talk to Dr. Sheridan. He thinks, _mission report_. 

"Toward the end of his life, it was rare that he would penetrate me in private or engage in any sexual behavior that didn’t serve the dual purposes of dominating me and reinforcing his control of the rest of HYDRA command," Bucky says. 

"Dual purposes?" Dr. Sheridan says. Bucky didn’t expect the interruption. He shuts his mouth, waiting for elaboration—he is supposed to listen when spoken to. 

"I would imagine that there were at least three purposes," Dr. Sheridan continues. "You must have made him feel very good, Bucky. You must have given him a great deal of pleasure." 

He stalls out at that thought, the engine of his mind turning over and failing to catch. Sure—Secretary Pierce almost always came, that was true. He just. He doesn’t know what to do with that. 

"I’m sorry for cutting in," Dr. Sheridan says. "I just didn’t want you to discount yourself. Please, continue." 

"Yessir," Bucky says, his mind still a couple steps back. He doesn’t know how to fit this piece into his narrative, either the one he told himself then or the one he tells himself now. It takes a while for him to get started again, but Dr. Sheridan waits and patiently watches. 

"He penetrated me in public, is what I'm trying to say. It was about dominance, more than anything else. Showing off just how much of a machine I was, that I wouldn’t object to being bent over the table in front of everyone," he says. 

"Did he only treat you like a machine, Bucky? Was it always that clinical?" Dr. Sheridan asks. Rage flares up like the gentle question was kerosene, but he douses it just as quick. That’s something he has a lot of practice in. Anger has gotten to be something he felt more physically than emotionally—his jaw, clenching hard enough to give himself a headache, heat building on the back of his neck—and he is starting to sweat. 

"No," Bucky says. There’s no trace of emotion in his voice. "There is no victory in mastering a machine." 

Dr. Sheridans waits. Bucky doesn’t have any more words in him. 

Eventually, he prompts: "Is that something they would say? How would they make you one of their victories? How would Pierce master you?" 

He answers the questions. 

"Yes," he says. "The Secretary was very insistent that I was not a machine. He always made a point to talk to me, give me reasons for my missions. Even at the end, he gave me credit for shaping the century."

"He didn’t just talk to you, though, did he," the doctor says, eyes gleaming. He recognizes the look in them, even from a great distance. 

"No," he says, because it is what the doctor wants him to say. "He fucked me, too. He bent me over the table in the middle of a meeting and would keep me there, ass up. He’d get me hard and dripping and make me wait for it. He would make me want to beg and then not let me do it. That was the point—the fact that he could make me want something without even knowing what that meant." 

"Did he ever have you ask to be fucked?" the doctor says.

"Yes," he says. "The Secretary would tell me to beg and I would. When he said stop, I would fall silent—no matter how desperate I had been, moments before." 

"So you do know how to ask for it," the doctor says. "Did you ever tell him no? Did you ever ask him to stop?" 

There’s so much history of no. So many different ways Bucky said no, to so many different people. He’s going to be smothered by all the refusals—as a lifeline, he focuses on the specificity of the doctor’s question. 

"Not to the Secretary," he says. "By then—I didn’t say no."

"Did it feel good?" 

The question skips his conscious mind and lands right in his spinal cord, in the ache that’s building out of nothing but memory in his lower back. 

"I would orgasm," he says. "I would come, over and over. He’d make me come until I went dry. Afterwards, I’d lick it up." 

"Very interesting," the doctor says. "So you are capable of feeling arousal when you are penetrated. More than anything, it sounds like you are out of practice. You should think of therapy like training for a sport—repetition, consistency, and constantly pushing yourself."

There’s something like a command in that, but he doesn’t think there’s anything actionable. He says nothing, willful. He’s already been pushing himself. He’s worked harder on therapy than anything else in his life—but no matter how far he runs, he ends up here. And he knows what’s next, better even than the doctor does. 

It’s clear that the silence is unsettling the doctor. He frowns, but it passes right through without contact. When the doctor stands to retrieve a black plastic bag, he doesn’t flinch. It crinkles. The doctor huffs a little as he eases himself back in the chair and sets the bag on the little table between them. 

“I got some equipment for us to work with,” he says. “For the early stages of exposure therapy, it is often advised that clinicians work through the process with the client.” 

The Secretary would often explain what he was doing. It had a different tone to it, though. Less defensive. He had been exulting in his power—the doctor is speaking to a third party, standing over their shoulders. 

His eyes flick to the crotch of the doctor’s pants—he’s hard. Unsurprising. 

“Why don’t you see what I got for you?” the doctor says. “You’ve been putting so much work into this, Bucky. I think you deserve me meeting you halfway and giving you some tools to make your work easier.” 

Even with everything, his name sinks under his skin, warm and sweet. It feels nice to be spoken to tenderly—and to have it acknowledged, that this is work. He’s reasonably sure, at this point, that this doctor is engaged in something his Wakandan doctor never would have done—but it is still hard work, to be here, to be subject to it. It’s difficult to lean forward and fish out the six dildos of increasing size, and keep his hands still. The smallest dildo is large. The biggest—enormous. There’s a bottle of lube, water-based. The doctor had researched this. 

He lines them up in a row, switching two around so they stand in order of increasing length. They’re all inhuman colors—purples and matte blacks. They wobble and gleam, even in the cozy warm light of the office. They smell like plastic and powder, a chemical smell. 

He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want any of this. He wishes it wasn’t happening. 

“Approximately how large is Steve’s penis, when it is erect?” the doctor asks. 

He has an excellent spatial sense so he immediately points to one in the middle. Appropriately, it is blue. 

The doctor’s hand is resting on his own thigh, pressing the fine grey fabric into his own flesh. He almost wants to reassure him that he knows where this is going, but he can’t bring himself to speak and the thought of giving even implicit permission makes his gut lurch. 

“How large was Alexander Pierce’s penis?” the doctor asks. 

He points—the smallest one, though it isn’t by any means small. 

Something flickers across the doctor’s face—disappointment, maybe. 

“He fucked me with things even more difficult to take than that,” he says, pointing to the biggest one—an incongruous translucent purple. “Rarely purposeful sex toys. Though he went out of his way to find things that would fit.” 

The doctor leans forward and he feels that eagerness fluttering in his own gut—it twists between pleasure that he has done well and an aching nausea. This is exactly why he ends up here, this moment—his inability to resist even the faintest hope of affirmation. 

“What would he use?” 

A few hours ago, this sort of question would send him flickering through memories--the serum enhanced his recall and his past is always itching to vividly insert itself into his attention. 

Now, though, he is able to provide a catalog, blank and empty of any emotional resonance. 

"Sidearms, of various makes. Those aren't as large, but they have hard edges. A stun-baton. One liter glass sparkling water bottle. His son’s baseball bat. An armed grenade. The handle of a mop. The head of a mop." 

The doctor’s expression swerves between aroused and disturbed, but he is clearly all the way fascinated. He feels that attention like fingers pressing bruises into his skin. 

"It—it took a lot of work, to get the mop in. It's unwieldy. Lube was everywhere, just dripping down me. And it’s soft, but a lot of volume—he had to put some muscle into it." 

He’s listening to himself as if it is a stranger talking. But then the doctor smiles and praises him, telling him: 

"Bucky, the level of dedication you have to your own well-being is truly impressive. I wish all my patients were as open to the therapeutic process as you." 

With that he cannot help but be aware that it is him, it's all him—this is the person he is. The praise settles in his core, leeching warmth and poison alike. 

He is heavy in his own body, feeling every bit of fabric against his skin. This is how Steve’s different than me, he thinks. Steve is bullheadedly focused on good, for its own sake. Bucky has always been meant to take orders. 

The thought of Steve risks everything, any semblance of control. He can't--he doesn’t—Steve has always—he ruthlessly pushes it all down, and grits out more words for his own pyre.

"The biggest object was probably the fire extinguisher," he says. "But that hurt. I didn’t come from that." 

"We have an upper limit, then," the doctor says, a trace of humor in his voice. "Very scientific." 

He can tell his eyes are wide—he can feel the strain. His breathing is as even as a metronome, though, and he keeps focused just to the right of the doctor’s chin. Attentive, but not disrespectful. 

"It’s clear to me that your problem is a matter of practice and habituation," he says. "If you were able to enjoy the penetration of extremely large objects by someone you had no romantic feelings for, you should be able to take the cock of the man you love. I propose that we have a session now, with the remainder of our time. It can only help your personal development," he says. 

The doctor looks expectant. There is no response. 

"Well?" he says. "How does that sound?" 

Bucky refuses to say yes to this, even though he cannot bring himself to say no--his body is twisted up with his broken mind, all fucked-up and falling to pieces. He is thinking a universe of things at once, though his mind has the emptiness of a vortex: this is just what happens to me, he thinks. This is the only place I’ll ever be, he thinks. The doctor is trying to help me, he thinks. I just want to be good, he thinks. Maybe I can be normal again, he thinks. This is so transparent, he thinks. But he isn’t really thinking, not in coherent thoughts that can be parsed into meaning. It’s just white noise. 

The doctor apparently decides that it isn't worth staking his plans on the empty formality of agreement, after a long silence. 

"What I want you to do now is pick up one of the dildos. It is important that you select it and take ownership of it. Remember, though—it is necessary to push yourself. You always train with more weight than you’ll have on the field." 

He follows the doctor’s eyes, which are fixed on the largest dildo. It is big--he’s taken bigger, but not recently. This is what is desired, though. Going for anything else would be implicitly opting in, in a way: it would be helping the man make this easier, make this smoother. They’d end up with the biggest one, inevitably—starting smaller will just make it easier to take. 

He reaches for the dildo. It has a heft, in his hand, and the silicone sways under its own weight, giving strange inertia. 

The doctor licks his lips. When he speaks, his voice is rough. 

"It’s important to be comfortable with it. Why don't you touch it all over? Get familiar with it as an object. Maybe stick it in your mouth, start to teach yourself that it can’t hurt you." 

He doesn’t like the sensation of it. It is both powdery and sticky, at the same time--it doesn't feel like something which is meant to be an object on its own. He has the sense that if anything touches it too long, it’ll sink into them and disappear. 

When he licks it, it tastes blank. 

The doctor’s cheeks are flushing, even just from the little lick he gave to the head of the toy. 

"Stick it in your mouth," he says. "How deep can you take it on this end?" 

He has no remaining gag reflex from decades of a nasogastric tube, but they had spoken extensively about the occasional feeling of panic he got, when his mouth was too full. The thought that the doctor should know better drifted across his mind and then vanished. 

He presses it in himself, not bothering to be careful with his teeth. He can feel them dig into the elastic silicone, drag as he presses and pushes and forces it as deep as it would go. The tracks they make disappear, though—he’d have to work to bite through something this thick. 

His eyes start to water and spit is leaking around the corner's of his mouth--not slobbering out, not like when he was asked to really work for it—but dripping enough to leave his chin tacky, for him to feel the warmth of his saliva cool in the air. 

The doctor has given into the inevitable and he’s pressing his dick over his pants, rubbing heavily with his palm. The sight makes him dig his teeth in deeper to the dildo, which bulges it further up into his upper palette. 

He doesn’t choke, but the doctor stands and walks to him, like he's aiming to fix that. He's not a tall man, but he’s standing and the chair is low. He looms. He reaches down and presses the base of the dildo with his palm, the same one that had been on his own dick. The doctor pushes hard enough that it hurts and it cuts off his air. 

"Good," he says. "You’re so good at this, Bucky. How could you ever deny yourself?" 

His voice is so kind. There’s no air, his chest hitches to take in something that isn't there. It turns into heat—the ache in his throat and lungs drifting down the rest of his body. The doctor pushes harder and he gets hotter and the liquid from his eyes is no longer strictly physiological. 

Maybe the doctor can smell it on him, because he gets even more bold. There's still no air, but he pushes his clothed dick in, presses it against his cheek. He feels it, hot and alive in a way the inert silicone isn’t. 

The doctor rocks the dildo deeper, even though there’s nowhere else for it to go. He rocks his dick up in the same rhythm. It could be the rhythm of breath, but there isn’t any of that—if he wasn’t a super-soldier, this would be long enough for his vision to darken, but he can stay in this liminal space for a long, long time. 

The only thing that breaks it is the doctor losing patience. He pulls the dildo out with a slick choking noise. Finally, belatedly—a gag, like the air choked him when the cock couldn’t. 

"Enough of this," he says, his voice gruff. "We have a purpose, here. You can suck Steve's cock, right? That’s not a problem for you?" 

It hadn’t been, maybe it won’t be. There’s no reply possible. 

The doctor grabs him by the hair—not brutal, but not gentle either. He draws him up, giving enough of a cue that he doesn’t have to really put any muscle into it. 

The doctor doesn’t want the next position to be standing, though. When he's halfway up, the doctor pushes him down, on to his hands and knees. He feels the dildo pushed up against his back, guiding him. 

The doctor sits back in the chair, his patient in front of him. The sound of his breathing is impossibly loud. His hands fumble at the patient’s belt and they brush against his cock, half-hard and twitching uneasily. The patient jerks, a sharp movement repressed near instantly. Not soon enough, though, because the doctor notices and does it again—he rubs the back of his hand against the patient’s dick and makes a small noise of satisfaction. 

The patient shivers. He lets his head hang, low enough his forehead brushes the carpet. 

He’s wearing loose jeans and they’re easy to pull off his hips with his underwear, though they constrict his thighs when the doctor leaves them there. 

"You’re being very good, Bucky," the doctor says. "But in order for this to work, you're going to have to ask me for it. Remember, that’s the problem—Steve gets scared off when you don’t ask him for it nice enough. You need to learn to feel good and you need to learn to ask." 

He’s rubbing his thumb against the patient’s hole and he can feel the dry pressure spark--the sick thing is it does feel good, right now, he can feel his hips getting looser, his cock getting harder. He doesn’t understand. He is totally opaque to himself, but he’s getting hard and his muscles clench around nothing. 

The patient doesn’t speak for long enough that the doctor swats him, none-too-gently, right on the hole. It doesn’t provoke much of a response, the pain inconsequential in the scheme of things, but it recalls him enough to himself for him to speak. 

"Please," he says. "I want you to fuck me." 

It sound sincere because it _is_, he wants it—it’s been a long time, and just this shivery contact reminds him that it’s something he likes when he’s not begging for it to stop. 

"It would be inappropriate for me to fuck you with my cock, Bucky," the doctor says. He sounds disappointed in him and it makes the patient cringe, pushing his face harder against the carpet. The doctor runs his hand soothingly down the patient’s back, bunching up the cotton of his shirt underneath the dildo. 

"With the dildo, please?" the patient says, hoping it's right. 

The snap of the lube-cap opening tells him he got it right and that he’s getting lube, which is enough to make him cant his hips back and up. Even as his body makes the movement, he’s aching. 

He digs his teeth into his own lip and reminds himself that he doesn’t want this, even as he begs for it, even as part of him wants it. There’s no point in begging for something to stop when he doesn’t get a say. He doesn’t want this—he wants to be better—he wants to be full—he wants to be _home_

The doctor sinks two fingers into him with no warning, enough that his back arches and he feels the sting and stretch. The patient shifts away from it and then reminds himself of what’s happening and presses back in. If he makes a show of eagerness, maybe it’ll end faster—the thought just makes him sicker, because listen to him lie, and lie, and lie. 

He hears slick, wet sounds that were off rhythm with the fingers working the muscles of his ass--he realizes that the doctor is touching himself. He grinds his teeth and his head aches and he’s starting to sweat—without conscious thought his metal fist slams into the floor hard enough that he cracks the floorboards. 

The doctor actually moans and pushes a third finger in, using his strength to fuck up into the patient harsh and sudden. It isn’t enough to rock him forward—the doctor isn’t that strong—but it sends him spiraling back in his head, makes him feel foolish. 

"You’re a powerful man, Bucky," he says. "You need to watch your strength. But don't worry, this is a stressful process. I’ll bill you for the repairs next session and we can forget it ever happened." 

_Next session_ echoes through his head and he is so caught up in that that the blunt head of the dildo takes him by surprise. It is slick with lube, dripping off—he can feel a glob of it trace between his cheeks, running down the inside of his thigh. 

He’s stretched, but not enough for a monster like this--the doctor is stubborn, though, and he keeps the pressure relentlessly. It’s not going to fit. It’s not going to happen—but even as he is thinking that, the patient knows that he’s wrong. It always fits and he always can take it, it’s always possible for him. 

The moment where his ass gives and lets the dildo in lingers until he’s breathless again, until there’s nothing but the drag of his rim against well-lubed silicone and his body giving in, giving way. He takes it until there’s nothing left of it to take, and he’s so fucking full he can taste it in his throat. He’s choking on it from the other end, struggling to catch his breath. 

“Wrap your metal hand around your own neck,” the doctor says. “Squeeze.” 

The patient has to topple forward onto his right shoulder to do as he’s told. He grips tight enough to leave bruises on a normal man--but for him, they’ll fade before he’s home. His eyes are shut and his throat is closing. He’s collapsing in on himself until he’s nothing but full--his body isn’t distracted by anything, except for the penetration. 

There’s grunting and then the air fills with the heavy scent of semen. The patient startles when a wet hand rubs his cock, rough and closer to pawing than a handjob. He had almost forgotten he was hard. He tries not to respond. But the doctor presses the dildo in deeper, less fucking him with it than drilling thourgh him with inexorable pressure. 

He comes like he’s trapped, like water leaking through a crack. He still can’t breathe and a small part of him hopes the doctor forgets to rescind the order. 

Of course, that’s not what happens. 

“You can breathe now, Bucky,” the doctor says. “You did so well.” 

He stands up, leaving the patient on the floor. The patient has the same cold-sweat feeling of losing a lot of blood. He worries he’ll actually pass out, if he stands up. 

There’s an unsteady, awkward feeling in the air. He can feel the doctor look at him. 

“There’s an attached bathroom,” he says, finally. “I’ll let you clean up. I’m going to put these tools away for our next session.” 

The patient snorts. How absurd, his confidence. How contemptible that he’s certainly not wrong. The patient lays there, ass-up just like the Secretary used to leave him, until the gravity of those memories pulls him out of his unreflective absorption in the present. Flashes of sensation from times-like-this-but-different remind him of himself and he sits up. 

Dr. Sheridan is gone, of course. From what Bucky's seen, it takes a particularly hard man to sustain small talk with your victim. He’s known his fair share like that, but he certainly had more experience in this arena than the doctor. 

Bucky pulls his pants up and resolutely does not acknowledge the slippery squelch of his flesh rubbing against itself, the persistent ache. 

He doesn’t clean himself up. He leaves himself aching and wet. It feels deserved. When he walks out the door of the nice brownstone where Dr. Sheridan keeps his office, he turns the wrong direction and walks. 

He’s not sure where he’s going, but he has no doubt that he’ll end up in this office again, somehow.

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilery warnings: Bucky is in therapy dealing with a lot of different things, but the most relevant part to the current session is that he’s struggling with recovering from rape and specifically, coping with/enjoying penetration with Steve. The therapist is a total piece of shit, no way else to say it, and manipulates him. This includes a lot of twisting of valid/real therapeutic concepts for nefarious purposes, triggering him, and framing the narrative of Bucky being raped as positive for the rapist. Steve is no longer willing to do the “exposure therapy” which involves him trying to pressure Bucky to get fucked. This eventually escalates into the therapist volunteering himself as the one that will help Bucky, which leads to the therapist raping Bucky. The therapist forces Bucky to engage in terms of asking for it/choosing which sex toy, etc and Bucky is aroused, but Bucky is not meaningfully consenting and actively dissociates during the sex. He also thinks really badly about himself, basically thinking he deserves this/brings it on himself. The ending is ambiguous-leaning-hopeless.


End file.
